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Author: Anne Cassidy

Changing Purses

Changing Purses

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My mother, I recall, used to do it quite often — sometimes once or twice a week, to match her shoes. I do it once or twice a year, if I’m lucky.

I’m talking about changing purses, that great seasonal, female ritual (maybe male, too, I don’t want to discriminate!) in which the contents of one bag goes into another.

Sounds simple, right? But it’s not.

Because a purse has a soul, you see, a way of being carried or worn, and the Metro card spot in my woven straw-colored summer bag is completely different from the one in the my multi-pocketed black leather winter bag.

To complicate the process this year I’ve purloined a bag of Celia’s, one she loves but is not carrying  right now, college girl that she is. (A backpack or a pocket is all she needs.)

So I’ve tried to cram everything from a roomy “Mom”-type purse into a sleek younger model.

We’ll see how long it will be until I’m changing purses again!

Still Summer

Still Summer

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Rain in the morning, a high wind stirs the oaks. Leaves fall fast as drops.

For two weeks summer has been a birthright I’ve pretended will never end. Each day balmy and placid, each night a symphony of katydid and cricket chirps.

Today, maybe more of the same, if the rain behaves itself, stays tropical and warm, doesn’t veer into a chill autumn drizzle.

I know it’s only a matter of time before the illusion ends. But I’ll take it as long as I can.

Family Day

Family Day

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A year ago we hadn’t even visited Celia’s college for the first time. Now it’s her new home.

And today we drive up to see her. It’s Family Day, a convention I don’t remember from my own college years.

Though it was less than two months ago that we helped move her in, now it’s her school. She’ll give us her own tour, the kind you always want your children to give, the kind that comes from knowing and loving a place and wanting to share it as your own.

A Walk and a Chase

A Walk and a Chase

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Day before yesterday, as often happens on Wednesdays, I was a walker in the city. And because it was the first full day of shutdown (many federal employees having come in on Tuesday to sign papers before being furloughed), I strolled through an eerily quiet D.C.

I angled down New Jersey to the Capitol and walked around it to First Street, N.E. The police were in full force and I remember thinking, this is probably not a good place to be today.

But the blue sky and mild air drew me along, down the hill to the Botanical Gardens (closed), past the American Indian Museum (closed), the Air and Space (closed) and across the Mall itself. Even the grass was closed.

Finally, crossing Constitution and Pennsylvania, angling up Indiana to E Street and the courts (not yet closed), I found people again, and some of the liveliness of a typical weekday afternoon.

Yesterday, as I heard police sirens racing down Constitution from my office (on lockdown), searching for news of the shooting at the Capitol (also on lockdown) I thought about Wednesday’s route.

Twenty-four hours later and I would have been crouching behind a tree.

(Yesterday’s car chase along Constitution Avenue passed a shuttered National Archives, pictured here on a more typical afternoon.)

 

Hacked!

Hacked!

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I left my desk for a cup of tea. When I came back 10 minutes later I had 30 or more returns from an email I didn’t send.

I’m not the most computer-savvy person in the world, but it didn’t take long to figure out what had happened. Someone (some people? something?) had hacked into my email account and sent everyone in my address book a link to some crazy product, a bunch of German words — or in some cases just my email signature, which includes a link to this blog.

It was inconvenient and embarrassing and took time to resolve. But strange to say it had an unexpected silver lining. It reconnected me with folks I hadn’t been in touch with in years. 

So what was triggered by the anonymity of the modern world became a powerful connector to real human beings.

Yes, I was hacked. But then I was healed.

Lying Still

Lying Still

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At first it seemed like any other morning. The drowsy drive to Metro, sipping tea along the way. Parking, walking, boarding a car, pulling out my journal and scribbling some thoughts.

But then I looked up, considered the time, noticed the difference.

It was the busiest hour of the busiest day of the week. And it was quiet. There were seats on train cars, places to stand on the platform, an unimpeded walk up the escalator.

These words come to mind:

The river glideth at his own sweet will:
Dear God! the very houses seem asleep;
And all that mighty heart is lying still! 

William Wordsworth, “Upon Westminster Bridge”

Shutdown!

Shutdown!

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It’s the first day of October — and the first day of government shutdown.  I’m imagining what the Metro will look like tomorrow (today, employees must still report to work, only to fill out some papers and then go home).

I imagine the trains and buses will be emptier but the roads busier. Home improvement stores will be bustling as the furloughed ones use this time to catch up on projects.

One doesn’t have to live here long to realize what a company town this is. A company town the business of which is government. A business that has shut down.

Let’s Dance!

Let’s Dance!

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Sometimes the empty nest is so quiet it drives you out of the house and into … the dance studio. Tap dance, in this case. Maybe (in retrospect) because it is so loud. But mostly, I think, because it is so much fun.

“Smile,” the instructor says. “Don’t forget to smile.”

And so I do, even though I feel ridiculous wearing a little straw hat, attempting shuffle ball change and a complicated routine that others seem to be picking up much more quickly. Oh, and without tap shoes. (I’m waiting on those until I’m sure I want to stay with this.)

But it’s hard to feel ridiculous for long in a tap-dance studio. After all, everyone else is wearing a little straw hat.

So I loosened my shoulders and let the music flow through me.

That’s when the awkwardness went away and the dancing began.

(Photo: Tapdance.org.)

Ancient Rhythms

Ancient Rhythms

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A bounty of photos means that Africa is still on my mind.

I imagine the roads at dusk, red soil, the shadows lengthening. A river beside the road, or maybe still water, a small pond.

Ancient rhythms, still alive.


(Photo by Katie Esselburn)

Gifts from Africa

Gifts from Africa

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The human heart is a funny thing, what it withstands, what it does not. I’ve long since accustomed myself to Suzanne’s absence. She’s been in Africa well over a year now. She’s busy, happy, completely at home.

But last night, the worlds collided. Suzanne’s friend Katie came to visit “bearing gifts” from her recent trip to see Suzanne in Benin. Things Suzanne had bought and wanted us to have:

There was a leather wallet, a small wall hanging of a woman carrying a jug on her head and a set of hand-cast ladles made of an indeterminate metal (maybe aluminum?).

For some reason now, I can hardly look at these gifts without a tissue nearby. That Suzanne chose them with her own hands, arranged for their passage here — well, it just got to me.

It’s always that way, isn’t it? The small, thoughtful detail; a glimpse of the eternal within the everyday.


(Photo: Katie Esselburn)